The Hangman's Noose
by MatheiuWilliamsKirkland
Summary: Arthur Kirkland had done a perfectly good job keeping out of the queen's sight. Passing as a privateer's ship, the pirate had managed to keep a low profile on land for years. Until a little thief chose his vessel as the perfect passage out of London. This violet eyed stowaway will be the death of them all. Pirate!Uk x Thief!Canada. Rated T for language and mentions of intercourse.


The waves lapped gently against the wooden body of his ship, rocking it gently as it sat in waiting near the docks. The men chatted amongst themselves, throwing what seemed to be careless comments around as they loaded the supplies, their eyes never hovering in one place for too long. Arthur tapped his foot impatiently, leaning against the helm as he watched. Port was the last place he wanted to be, the queen's ever suspicious little dogs had been roaming the docks more so than usual in the past week, watching for any…less that gentlemanly behavior. Not that he was anything less than a gentleman. No, Arthur Kirkland was the finest of men, when he wanted to be. And right now, with a particularly unsightly guard glaring at him from beneath a think brimmed hat, his face half-covered by a bushy black mustache, gentlemanly was all he cared to be. After all, what good was food and supplies when if they came attached to a rope that would one day tighten around his neck. A man, gentleman or thief, was no good dead, any fool worth his salt knew that.

He tipped his hat towards the guard, wincing internally at the thread-bare feel of it. Privateers did not wear fine clothes, even the captain. The velvet that normally capped his messy head of blond locks would have caused too much suspicion, even if the rest of him was fairly plain looking.

"Sir, we are ready"

Arthur nodded, trying not to look relieved as his first mate reported their task finished. The lanky Frenchman looked as if he should be tending to some lord off in his homeland, no giving orders on a common ship. Even with a scarf pulling his long blond hair back and out of view, his normally meticulously matched clothing traded for the simplest shirt and trousers in the wardrobe Arthur figured the man had managed to stuff away below deck somewhere, Francis looked far too expensive to his own damn good. Or Arthur's for that matter. "When can we sail, frog?" he questioned through his teeth, crossing his arms as he watched the solider send him another glance out of the corner of his eyes.

"The men should be back from the town by dawn, _captain_, and so will I. Now if you will excuse me…" he replied, flashing a rather sickly smile as he flounced off towards the gangplank, waving far too regally at a small group of women just behind the nearest building. Arthur swore under his breath, sending a nod towards the watchman in the nest as he retired back into his cabin, the planks splintering slightly as he slammed the door behind him. Damn the French bastard for releasing the men without telling him first. It was a thousand wonders Arthur hadn't nailed him to the mast by now. If he wasn't so bloody good at his job, there was no doubt in his mind Arthur would have thrown the frog overboard the first time he ran that mouth of his. There were few better men at his disposal though and none that could handle Francis's position with as much grace and dignity than the idiot could somehow muster up.

Arthur inhaled as he leaned against the door, trusting the salty scent of the sea to calm his nerves in a way no human knew how. His feet carried him towards the low swinging hammock on their own accord as the familiar sound of the ocean's call pulled him away from the noise of the town outside, the thick wooden walls muffling voices beyond recognition. The men needed their rest, their time with people outside the group that normally resided in the harsh embrace of the ship's hull. Arthur sighed as he slumped into the awaiting canvas, not bothering with his boots or belt. He had no intentions of staying long, not when there was work to be done. But better to be in his hammock than facing the ever leering mustache outside. He should have gone with his men, followed them into the town where the alcohol was probably better than the cheap shit they had been down to before making port. Although the thought of Francis dragging him into another brothel was enough to keep Arthur firmly planted in his small piece of the world. There was far too much pressure in_ that _situation alone, even without the military pushing their noses into every little corner they could find. The last thing he needed was to be caught with his pants down, in every sense of the word. He grimaced as he grabbed the bottle resting on the floor beside him, eyes closing as he pressed it to his lips, the lukewarm liquid nearly making him gag as it filled his mouth. No, there would not be another repeat of that little fiasco as long as he could avoid it, one flustered woman glaring at him was worse than ten of the mustached idiot, that much was sure.

The warm fuzz around his consciousness that always accompanied his first drink of the day banished such thoughts, though, pulling his mind towards the mountain of papers lying on his desk. He groped for them, too comfortable to place even a toe on the floor. Several of them were within grasp, their brethren flying across the room as he snatched them from their resting place, holding them close the light of the lantern. The numbers from their latest purchases, both cost and weight, made columns down the pages, blurring with each new line. Damn Frenchy's expensive taste. Why the frog insisted on wine rather than rum was beyond Arthur, but the price between the two had his head spinning before he even managed to get drunk. Arthur placed each paper alongside the reports of his men, comparing each barrel and box ordered to the one loaded bellow. His eyes narrowed on a particular line, rereading it again, and again to make sure. The price was right. The weight was not. Barrel fifty-four had been only around one hundred pounds when ordered and shipped to the yard. The men had estimated two hundred. Arthur frowned, checking the others to make sure no other numbers where misweighed. It was an uncommon occurrence for any of his men to be off by more than ten pounds. Fifty was rare and had only happened once. So, since when does a barrel gain a hundred pounds from the outpost to the hands of sailors? Arthur had a good idea how, and he was about to find out.

He sat up, not bothering with the papers pushed to the floor by his movements, he would have Francis clean them up later. He had to hire a cabin boy eventually, or steal one, whichever worked. He was surprised to find night had already fallen as he eased his door open, not wanting to disturb the watchman with any sudden movements. He saw the man glance at him from the crow's nest, followed by a small wave. Arthur nodded in gripping the key to the storage room in his hand as he made his way across the ship, glancing at the docks every so often to watch for soldiers. If he was right, then there would more than likely be a seen. That is, if their little _guest_ refused to cooperate. Arthur sneered as he twisted the key in the lock, silently pushing open the door. He hated stowaways more than soldiers, especially those that made it into the cargo hold. Every man worked for his bread and rum, why should some sneaky arse get stuffed for free and risk them all starving? Just the thought of it made the Englishman sick to the core. He had spent too many voyages with his belly rumbling and his throat parched when rations started running short to put up with a little sneak. He closed the door behind him, locking it before threading the key around his neck. He moved softly, his footsteps barely echoing throughout the dark belly of the ship. Small red tallies marked the number of each barely, their intended cargo written just above in Francis's flowing scribble. His hand skimmed the edge of each barrel lightly as he counted, keeping track of those he had passed before his feet stopped in front of the one that had forced him down there to begin with.

He clinched his sword, still sheathed at his hip. He could easily run it through the wooden container, putting an end to the situation. If he was wrong, a sword slice would do no harm to the bread that should be inside. But, if he was right, then a dead stowaway was better than a blabbering one. After all, dead men can't talk. But, should the idiot scream as his sword ran through flesh, Arthur would have a hard time explaining that to any soldiers who may hear. He rested his hand on the barrels lid, listening carefully for any sounds from inside. The room was quiet, nearly silent except for the faint roar of the sea. But he could just barely hear what sounded like muffled gasping coming from inside. His eyes went wide before narrowing to slits, his hands turning to claws as he stepped to the side, pulling the barrel down to spill its contents across the ship's floor.

The boards creaked and groaned as the man was thrown from the barrel, rolling across the floor. A hand shot out, grabbing Arthur's boot, only to be quickly kicked away. It withdrew to its owner's side instantly, hugging against his chest as he pushed up with his other hand, tangled blonde curls falling over his face as he scooted back away from the sailor, stopping when his back finally hit the wall.

"Wrong ship, boy" Arthur seethed, drawing his sword. A flick of his hand of his hand brought the cold metal underneath the other's sharp chin, pushing against the hollow of his throat. "Or did you honestly think this one was a good idea."

"Any, sir" The other whispered , neck stretched to avoid the sword. The captain smirked, pressing the tip of the metal into soft skin. So, the stowaway had manners. Or at least knew insolence weren't going to save him.

"Tell me, then, did you just jump in the barrel without thinking"

"I was going to leave before you…"

"Don't lie" Arthur hissed, pressing hard enough to draw blood.

"I'm not sir. I had no intentions of stay. I was…just running" The boy stuttered out, holding his hands up. Arthur raised an eyebrow, a smirk crossing his face. Perhaps he was telling the truth, or knew the best way to keep from being killed for a lie was to lie even harder. "Please…just let me leave."

"And why would I do that. Even if you intended to leave, you still cost me an entire barrel of provisions. And I doubt you have the money to pay that back." Arthur chuckled humorlessly, kneeling down in front of the figure. "Unless you think you're worth something"

"And if I do?" the voice pleaded, "If I have the money?"

Arthur's eyes went wide in shock, his hand pulling his sword back from the boy's throat involuntarily. It was the worst mistake he could have made. Suddenly, the figure that had been almost cowering against the wall sprang at him, knocking him backwards. His boots slipped against the wood as his back hit the floor, small hands wrapping around his throat.

"Drop the sword" The figure hissed, pressing down against his windpipe. Arthur gasped for air, releasing his sword from his grip, eyeing it wearily as it rolled away. The hands let up just enough for oxygen to stream down his throat, refilling his lungs. "I will be leaving now" The man hissed, sitting back slightly on Arthur's chest. The sailor's green eyes went dark, a smirk edging the corners of his lips up as he twisted, throwing the boy off balance and onto the boards below, pinning him down. A hand went to hid boot, grabbing the knife he kept hidden behind the buckle. He pushed it back against the other's throat, a small line of red appearing just above the one his sword had left.

"Not the best move, idiot" He scolded, grabbing a fistful of hair and pulling the man's head back roughly. Bright purple eyes looked up at him in surprise, hands flying to his shoulder's in a last-resort attempt to push the cold pressure away from his throat. Arthur glared at him, lips pulling up even further. The boy couldn't have been past twenty. His features were far too soft for anything older. Innocence was so blatantly written across those flushed pink cheeks he doubted the child even knew how to kill with a weapon, let alone his bare hands. "Did you actually think that was going to work?"

The boy glared back, the lack of fear in his eyes pissing Arthur off to no end. Still, killing him there would be a bad idea, the arse still had enough time to scream even with his voice cut out. Arthur's hand flew to the other's mouth, his knife digging in as another drop of blood joined the small trail. "Here's the deal, boy. You keep quiet and don't draw attention to us, and I won't push this knife down any farther, got it?"

The boy stayed silent, eyes shining in understanding and anger. Arthur pulled the knife back, tucking it back into his bootstrap. "Good. You have some sense after all." He continued, pushing himself up. "Now me a good boy and keep your hands where I can see them."

The boy nodded, holding his hands above his head as Arthur pushed himself up, grabbing his sword. "Now stand" he directed, pointing the metal back at the other as he did so but keeping his distance. "What's your name?"

The boy bit his lip, glaring at Arthur, "Matthieu Williams" he hissed, resting his hands on his head.

"Well Matthieu, can you swim?" Arthur sneered, taking a step forwards before the commotion outside caught his attention. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion as the voices pierced through their quiet confrontation. Footsteps rattled the boards overhead, fists banging on the door.

"Sir! The crown jewels have been stolen!" Francis voice floated into the room, panic filling ever syllable "The queen has ordered all homes and ships to be searched! We have to sail! Now!"

Arthur's head whipped around , his eyes settling back on Mattheiu. The boy leaned against several boxes, the widest smile across his lips, a shiny golden necklace loaded with jewels dangling from one outstretched finger. "I said I could afford it"


End file.
